
Book I X B 



IRISH MELODIES. 




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IRISH MELODIES. 



BY 



THOMAS MOORE 



ELEGANTLY ILLTTSTEATED. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

1866. 






SOURCE UNKNOWN 
MAY 2 8 1825 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

go where glory "waits thee 13 

Remember the glories of Brien the brave 15 

Oh ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME 16 

Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 16 

When he, who adores thee 17 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 17 

Fly not yet 18 

Oh ! THINK not MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT 19 

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see 20 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore 21 

As a beam o'er the face op the waters may glow 21 

The Meeting op the Waters . 22 

St. Senanus and the Lady 23 

How DEAR TO ME THE HOUR 23 

Take back the virgin page 24 

The Legacy 25 

How OFT HAS THE BeNSHEE CRIED 26' 

We may roam through this world 27 

Eveleen's Bower 29 

Let Erin remember the days op old 30 

Desmond's Song 30 

The Song op Fionnualla 32 

Come, send round the wine 32 

Sublime was the warning 33 

(9) 



X- CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 34 

Erin, oh Erin 35 

Drink to her 36 

Oh ! blame not the bard 37 

While gazing on the moon's light 39 

III Omens 40 

Before the Battle . 41 

After the Battle 42 

'Tis sweet to think 43 

The Irish peasant to his mistress * ... 44 

On Music 44 

It is not the tear at this moment shed 45 

The Origin of the Harp 46 

Love's Young Dream 47 

The Prince's Day 48 

"Weep on, weep on 50 

Lesbia hath a beaming eye 51 

I SAW THY form IN YOUTHFUL PRIME 52 

By that LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE 53 

She IS FAR FROM THE LAND 55 

Nay, tell me not 55 

Avenging and bright 57 

What the bee is to the floweret 57 

Love and the Novice 58 

This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes 59 

Oh ! the shamrock 60 

At the mid hour of night 62 

One bumper at parting 62 

'tis the last rose of summer 64 

The Young May Moon 65 

The Minstrel-Boy 66 

The Song of O'Ruark 66 

Oh ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN 68 

Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the hour 69 

Oh ! doubt me not 70 



CONTENTS. xi 

PAGE 

You REMEMBER ElLEN 71 

Td mourn the hopes 72 

Come o'er the sea 73 

Has sorrow thy young days shaded ? 74 

No, not more welcome 75 

When first I met thee 76 

While History's Muse 78 

The time Tve lost in wooing 79 

Oh, Where's the slave 80 

Come, rest in this bosom 8_ 

'tis gone, and for ever 82 

i saw prom the beach . 83 

Fill the bumper fair 83 

Dear Harp of my Country 85 

My gentle Harp 86 

As SLOW OUR ship 87 

In the morning of life 89 

When cold in the earth . 90 

Remember thee 91 

Wreath the bowl 91 

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes 93 

If thou'lt be mine 94 

To Ladies' Eyes 95 

Forget not the field 96 

They may rail at this life 97 

Oh ! for the swords of former time ! 98 

Ne'er ask the hour 99 

Sail on, sail on 100 

The Parallel 101 

Drink of this cup 102 

The Fortune-Teller ...» 104 

Oh, ye Dead! -. 105 

O'Donohue's Mistress , lOr 

Echo 107 

Oh, banquet not 10'^ 



xii CONTENTS. 

PAQB 

Thee, Thee, only Thee . 108 

Shall the Harp then be silent , , 109 

Oh, the sight entrancing . Ill 

Sweet Innisfallen 112 

'TWAS ONE OP those DREAMS 114 

Fairest ! put on awhile 115 

Quick ! we have but a second 116 

And doth not a meeting like this 117 

The Mountain Sprite 119 

As vanquished Erin 120 

They know not my heart 121 

I wish I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE 122 

She sung op Love 123 

Sing — sing — music was given 124 

Though humble the banquet 125 

Sing, sweet Harp . 126 

Song of the Battle Eve 127 

The Wandering Bard 128 

Alone in crowds to wander on 130 

I've a secret to tell thee 131 

Song op Innispail 131 

The Night Dance 132 

There are sounds op mirth 133 

Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore 134 

Lay his sword by his side . . * 135 

Oh, could we do with this world op ours 136 

The wine-cup is circling 137 

The dream op those days c . = 138 

From this hour the pledge is given 139 

Silence is in our festal halls 140 



IRISH MELODIES. 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS TIIEE. 

Go where glory waits thee, 
But while fame elates thee, 

Oh ! still remember me. 
When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest. 

Oh ! then remember me. 
Other arms may press thee, 
Dearer friends caress thee, 
All the joys that bless thee 

Sweeter far may be ; 
But when friends are nearest, 
And when joys are dearest, 

Oh ! then remember me ! 

When, at eve, thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest. 
Oh ! then remember me. 
2 (13) 



14 IRISH MELODIES. 

Think, wlien home returning, 
Bright weVe seen it burning, 

Oh I thus remember me. 
Oft as summer closes, 
When thine eye reposes 
On its ling'ring roses. 

Once so loved by thee, 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love them, 

Oh ! then remember me. 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying. 

Oh I then remember me. 
And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

Oh ! still remember me. 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling. 
To thy heart appealing. 

Draw one tear from thee; 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee,— 

Oh I then remember me. 



BKIEN THE BRAVE, 15 



KEMEMBER THE GLOEIES OF BEIEN THE BRAVE. 

WAR SONG. 

Remember the glories of Brien the brave, 

Though the days of the hero are o'er; 
'Though lost to MoDonia^ and cold in the grave, 

He returns to Kinkora no more. 
That star of the field, which so often hath poured 

Its beam on the battle, is set ; 
But enough of its glory remains on each sword, 

To light us to victory yet. 

Mononia ! when Nature embellished the tint 

Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, 
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print 

The footstep of slavery there ? 
No ! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign. 

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 
That His sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, 

Than to sleep but a moment in chains. 

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood 

In the day of distress by our side ; 
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood. 

They stirred not, but conquered and died. 
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light. 

Saw them fall upon Ossory^s plain ; — 
Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, 

To find that they fell there in vain. 



16 IRISH MELODIES. 



OH ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

Oh ! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, 
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid ; 
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed. 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 



ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES. 

Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies ! 
Shining through sorrow^s stream. 
Saddening through pleasure's beam^ 
Thy suns with doubtful gleam 
Weep while they rise. 

Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, 
Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 

Till, like the rainbow's light. 

Thy various tints unite. 

And form in heaven's sight 
One arch of peace ! 



TARASHALLS. 17 



WHEN he; who adores thee. 

When he, who adores thee, has left but the naiue 

Of his faults and his sorrows behind, 
Oh ! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resigned ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

-^'hy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 

Every thought of my reason was thine ; 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine. 
Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see ; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA^S HALLS. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 



18 mis H MELODIES. 

And hearts, that once beat high for praiso, 
Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells : 
The chord alone, that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 
^ To show that still she lives. 



FLY NOT YET. 

Fly not yet, His just the hour 
When pleasure, like the midnight flower 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 
Begins to bloom for sons of night. 

And maids who love the moon. 
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon were made ; 
^Tis then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing. 

Oh! stay,— Oh! stay,— 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that oh ! His pain 
To break its links so soon. 



oh! think not my spirits. 19 

Fly not yet ; the fount that played 
In times of old through Amnion's shade, 
Though icy cold by day it ran, 
Yet still, like gouls of mirth, began 

To burn when night was near. 
And thus should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as winter brooks, 
Nor kindle till the night, returning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh ! stay, — Oh ! stay, — 
When did morning ever break. 
And find such beaming eyes awake 
As those that sparkle here ? 



OH ! THINK NOT MY SPIKITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. 

Oh ! think not my spirits are always as light. 

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now ; 
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night 

Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. 
No : — life is a waste of wearisome hours, 

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; 
(And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers 

Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. 
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile : — 

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here. 
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, 

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear ! 



20. IRISH MELODIES. 

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows ! 

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined; 
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, 

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind. 
But they who have loved the fondest, the purest. 

Too often have wept o^er the dream they believed ; 
And the heart that has slumbered in friendship securest 

Is happy, indeed, if 'twas never deceived. 
But send round the bowl : while a relic of truth 

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, — 
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth. 

And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. 



THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH 
SORROW I SEE. 

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, 
Yet wherever .thou art shall seem Erin to me ; 
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. 

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore. 
Where the eye of the stranger can hunt us no more, 
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind 
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. 

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, 
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear 
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. 



AS A BEAM ER THE FACE. 21 



KICK AND RAEE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE, 

Rich and rare were the, gems she wore, 
And a "bright gold ring on her wand she bore j 
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. 

'^ Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray 

So lone and lovely through this bleak way ? 

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, 

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?'' 

'^ Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, 
No son of Erin will offer me harm : — 
For, though they love woman and golden store. 
Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue more." 

On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety lighted her round the green isle ; 
And blest for ever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride. 



AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW, 

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow. 
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below. 
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile. 
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. 



22 IRISH MELODIES. 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, 
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, 
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting — 

Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay. 
Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray ; 
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, 
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 

There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart. 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 

^Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. 

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should ceas( 

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! 



HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 23 

ST. SEN ANUS AND THE LADY. 

ST. SENANUS. 

^^ Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle, 
Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; 
For on thy deck, though dark it be, 

A female form I see ; 
And I have sworn this sainted sod 
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod.'' 

THE LADY. 

^^ Oh ! Father, send not hence my bark. 
Through wintry winds and billows dark : 
I come with humble heart to share 

Thy morn and evening prayer; 
Nor mine the feet, oh ! holy Saint, 
The brightness of thy sod to taint.'' 

The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned ; 
The winds blew fresh, the bark returned ; 
But legends hint, that had the maid 

Till morning's light delayed, 
And given the saint one rosy smile, 
She ne*er had left his lonely isle. 



HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, 
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea. 



24 IRISH MELODIES. 

For then sweet dreams of other days arise, 
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. 

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays 

Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, 

I long to tread that golden path of rays, 

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest. 



TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 

WRITTEN ON EETURNING A BLANK BOOK. 

Take back the virgin page, 

White and unwritten still ; 
Some hand, more calm and sage, 

The leaf must fill. 
Thoughts come as pure as light, 

Pure as even you require : 
But oh ! each word I write 

Love turns to fire. 

Yet let me keep the book : 

Oft shall my heart renew, 
When on its leaves I look. 

Dear thoughts of you. 
Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; 

Like you, too bright and fair 
To let wild passion write 

One wrong wish there. 



THELEGACY. 25 

Haply, when from those eyes 

Far, far away I roam, 
Should calmer thoughts arise 

Towards you and home ; 
Fancy may trace some line 

Worthy those eyes to meet, 
Thoughts that not burn, but shine. 

Pure, calm, and sweet. 

And as, o'er ocean far, 

Seamen their records keep. 
Led by some hidden star 

Through the cold deep; 
So may the words I write 

Tell through what storms I stray — • 
You still the unseen light 

Guiding my way. 



THE LEGACY. 

When in death I shall calm recline, 

O bear my heart to my mistress dear; 
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 

Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here. 
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow, 

To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 

To bathe the relic from morn till night. 
8 



2G IRISH MELODIES. 

When the light of my song is o'er, 

Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; 
Hang it up at that friendly door, 

Where weary travellers love to call. 
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, 

Revive its soft note in passing along, 
Oh ! let one thought of its master waken 

Your warmest smile for the child of song. 

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowmg, 

To grace your revel when I'm at rest; 
Never, oh I never its balm bestowing 

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest. 
But when some warm devoted lover 

To her he adores shall bathe its brim. 
Then, then my spirit around shall hover, 

And hallow each drop that foams for him. 



HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED, 

How oft has the Benshee cried I 
How oft has death untied 
Bright links that glory wove. 
Sweet bonds entwined by Love ! 
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth : 
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth : 
Long may the fair and brave 
Sigh o'er the hero's grave ! 



WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. 27 

We* re fallen upon gloomy days ! 
Star after star decays, 
Every bright name that shed 

Light o^er the land is fled. 
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth 
Lost joy, or hope that ne^er returneth : 

But brightly flows the tear 

Wept o'er a hero's bier. 

Quenched are our beacon lights — 

Thou, of the Hundred Fights ! 

Thou, on whose burning tongue 

Truth, peace, and freedom hung ! 
Both mute, — ^but long as valor shineth. 
Or mercy's soul at war repineth. 

So long shall Erin's pride 

Tell how they lived and died. 



WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. 

We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast, 

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; 
And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, 

We may order our wings, and be off to the west ; 
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile. 

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies. 
We never need leave our own green isle. 

For sensrtive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. 



28 IRISH MELODIES. 

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, 

Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, 

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round. 
Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. 

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept 

By a dragon of prudery placed within call ; 
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept. 

That the garden's but carelessly watched after all. 
Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence 

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells ; 
Which warns the touch, while winning the sense. 

Nor charms us least when it most repels. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned. 

Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round. 

Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home 

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail 

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try. 
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail. 

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye. 
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy. 

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, 
Through billows of woe and beams of joy, 

The same as he looked when he left the shore. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned. 

Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round. 

Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. 



EVELEEN S BOWER. 29 



EVELEEN^S BOWER. 



Oh ! weep for the hour 

When to Eveleen's bower 
The Lord of the Yallay with false vows came ; 

The moon hid her light 

From the heavens that night, 
And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame. 

The clouds passed soon 

From the chaste cold moon, 
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame; 

But none will see the day 

When the clouds shall pass away, 
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. 

The white snow lay 

On the narrow pathway. 
When the Lord of the Valley crossed over the moor ; 

And many a deep print 

On the white snow's tint 
Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. 

The next sun's ray 

Soon melted away 
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; 

But there's a light above, 

Which alone can remove 
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. 



3Q IRISH MELODIES. 



LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. 

Let Erin remember the days of old, 

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her; 
When Malachi wore the collar of gold, 

Which he won from her proud invader ; 
When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, 

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger; — 
Ere the emerald gem of the western world 

Was set in the crown of a stranger. 

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman "strays, 

When the clear cold eve's declining. 
He sees the round towers of other days 

In the wave beneath him shining; 
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime. 

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; 
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time 

For the long-faded glories they cover. 



DESMOND^S SONG. 

By the Fears wave benighted. 

No star in the skies. 
To thy door by Love lighted, 

I first saw those eyes. 
Some voice whispered o'er me. 

As the threshold I crossed, 



DESMONDSSONa. 31 

There was ruin before me, 
If I loved I was lost. 

Love came, and brought sorrow 

Too soon in his train; 
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 

'Twere welcome again. 
Though misery's full measure 

My portion should be, 
I would drain it with pleasure, 

If poured out by thee. 

You, who call it dishonor 

To bow to this flame. 
If you've eyes, look but on her, 

And blush while you blame. 
Hath the pearl less whiteness 

Because of its birth ? 
Ilath the violet less brightness 

For growing near earth ? 

No-^Man for his glory 

To ancestry flies ; 
But woman's bright story 

Is told in her eyes. 
While the Monarch but traces 

Through mortals his line. 
Beauty, born of the Graces, 

Ranks next to Divine ! 



32 IRISH MELODIES. 



THE SONG OF FIONNUALLA. 

Silent^ oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, 

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter 

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 
When shall the swan, her death-note singing, 

Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? 
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 

Call my spirit from this stormy world ? 

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, 

Fate bids me languish long ages away ; 
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping. 

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. 
When will that day-star, mildly springing, 

Warm our isle with peace and love ? 
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing. 

Call my spirit to the fields above ? 



COME, SEND KOUND THE WINE. 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief 

To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; 
This moment's a flower too fair and brief. 

To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. 
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue. 

But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, 



SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. ^3 

The fool, wlio would quarrel for difference of hue, 
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 

If he kneel not before the same altar with me ? 
rr#m the heretic girl of my soul should I fiy, 

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? 
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try 

Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this ! 



SUBLIME WAS THE WAENING. 

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke, 
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke 

Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain. 
Oh, Liberty ! let not the spirit have rest. 
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west — 
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, 
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot. 

While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain ! 

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights. 
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, 

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, 
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same. 
And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, 
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, 



34 IRISH MELODIES. 

Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, 
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! 

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned 
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find 

That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain, 
Join, join in our hope that the flame which you light 
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, 
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws. 
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause 

Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! 

God prosper the cause ! — oh, it cannot but thrive, 
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, 

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain. 
Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die ! 
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie ; 
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, 
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave 

Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain ! 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG 

CHARMS. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy gifts fading away, 



ERIN, OH ERIN. 35 

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And round the dear ruin each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. 
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known. 

To which time will but make thee more dear ; 
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets. 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, 

The same look which she turned when he rose. 



EEIN, OH ERIN. 

Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare^s holy fane. 
And burned through long ages of darkness and storm, 

Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain. 
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm. 

Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears 

Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears. 

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, 
Thy sun is but rising when others are set : 

And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, 
The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. 

Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade, 

Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade. 



3G IRISH MELODIES. 

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, 
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, 

Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind, 

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. 

Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past. 

And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last. 



DRINK TO HER. 

Drink to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh. 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 
Oh ! woman's heart was made 

For minstrel's hands alone : 
By other fingers played. 

It yields not half the tone. 
Then here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh. 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 

At Beauty's door of glass 

When Wealth and Wit once stood. 
They asked her, ^^ Which might pass ?" 

She answered, ^^ He who could." 
With golden key Wealth thought 

To pass — but 'twould not do : 



,H! BLAME NOT THE BARD. 37 

While Wit a diamond brought, 

Which cut his bright way through. 
So here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 

The love that seeks a home 

Where wealth or grandeur shines, 
Is like the gloomy gnome 

That dwells in dark gold mines- 
But oh ! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphere ; 
Its native home's above. 

Though woman keeps it here. 
Then drink to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 



OH 1 BLAME NOT THE BARD. 

Oh ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers 

Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame ; 
He was born for much more, and in happier hours 

His soul might have burned with a holier flame. 
The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre. 

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ; 

4 



38 IRISH MELODIES. 

And tlie lip which now breathes but the song of desire, 
Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart. 

But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by, 

And that spirit is broken, which never would bend ; 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. 
Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray ; 

Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires ; 
And the torch that would light them through dignity's way. 

Must be caught from the pile where their country expires. 

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream 

He should try to forget what he never can heal : 
Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! 
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down 

Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, 
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, 

Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. 

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, 

Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs. 
Not ev'n in the hour when his heart is most gay. 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. 
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, 
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains. 

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep I 



WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. 



WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON^S LIGHT. 

While gazing on the moon's light, 

A moment from her smile I turned, 
To look at orbs, that, more bright, 
In lone and distant glory burned. 
But, too far 
Each proud star, 
For me to feel its warming flame ; 
Much more dear 
That mild sphere, 
Which near our planet smiling came ) 
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own ; 

While brighter eyes unheeded play, 
ni love those moonlight looks alone, 
That bless my home and guide my way. 

The day had sunk in dim showers, 

But midnight now, with lustre meet, 
•Illumined all the pale flowers. 

Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. 
I said (while 
The moon's smile 
Played o'er a stream in dimpling bliss) 
*^ The moon looks 
On many brooks, 
The brook can see no moon but this;" 
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, 
For many a lover looks to thee. 



40 IRISH MELODIES. 

While oh ! I feel there is but one. 
One Mary in the world for me. 



ILL OMENS. 

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, 

And stars in the heaven still lingering shone, 
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, 

The last time she e'er was to press it alone. 
For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, 

Had promised to link the last tie before noon ; 
A.nd when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, 

The maiden herself will steal after it soon. 

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses. 

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, 
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses. 

Flew over the mirror and shaded her view. 
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces. 

She brushed him — he fell, alas ! never to rise — 
" Ah ! such,^^ said the girl, " is the pride of our faces, 

For which the soul's innocence too often dies.'' 

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was 
growing, 

She culled some, and kissed off" its night-fallen dew; 
And a rose, further on, ooked so tempting and glowing, 

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too : 



BEFORE THE BATTLE. 41 

But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, 

Her zone flew in two, and the heart' s-ease was lost: 

^^ Ah ! this means/' said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning), 
^^ That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost I" 



BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

By the hope within us springing, 

Herald of to-morrow's strife; 
By that sun, whose light is bringing 

Chains or freedom, death or life — 
Oh ! remember life can be 
No charm for him who lives not free ! 

Like the day-star in the wave, 

Sinks a hero in his grave, 
'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. 

Happy is he o'er whose decline 
The smiles of home may soothing shine, 
And light him down the steep of years : — 
But oh ! how blest they sink to rest, 
Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 

O'er his watch-fife's fading embers 
Now the foeman's cheek turns white, 

When his heart that field remembers, 
Where we tamed his tyrant might ! 

Never let him bind again 

A chain, like that we broke from then. 



42 IRISHMELODIES. 

Hark ! the horn of combat calls — 
Ere the golden evening falls, 
May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! 

Many a heart that now beats high, 
In slumber cold at night shall lie, 
Nor waken even at victory's sound :— 
But oh ! how blest that hero's sleep, 
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

Night closed around the conqueror's way, 

And lightnings showed the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day 

Stood few and faint, but fearless still ! 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal. 

For ever dimmed, for ever crossed — 
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but life and honor's lost ? 

The last sad hour of freedom's dream. 

And valor's task, moved slowly by, 
While mute they watched, till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die. 
There's yet a world where souls are free, 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
If death that world's bright opening be, 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 



'TISSWEETTOTHINK. 43 



'TIS SWEET TO THINK. 

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, 

We are sure to find something blissful and dear, 
And that, when we're far from the lips we love. 

We've but to make love to the lips we are near ! 
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, 

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. 
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. 

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We've but to make love to the lips we are near. / 

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise. 

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn^t there : 
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 

'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. 
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, 

They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, 
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike. 

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue ! 
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. 

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear. 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 



44 IRISH MELODIES. 

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Through grief and througli danger tliy smile hath cheered my 

way,^ 
Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay ; 
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned, 
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned ; 
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, 
i!nd blessed even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. 

Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned, 
Thy crown was of briars, while gold her brows adorned; 
She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves. 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were slaves ; 
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be^ 
Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee. 

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail — 
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale ! 
They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains ; 
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains — 
Oh ! foul is the slander — no chain could that soul subdue — 
Where shine th tJii/ spirit, there liberty shineth too ! 



ON MUSIC. 

"When through life unblest we rove, 
Losing all that made life dear, 

Should some notes we used to love, 
In days of boyhood, meet our ear. 



ITISNOTTH^TEAR. 45 

Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain ! 

Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; 
Kindling former smiles again 

In faded eyes that long have wept. 

Like the gale that sighs along 

Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the grateful breath of song 

That once was heard in happier hours ; 
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on, 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 

Its memory lives in Music's breath. 

Music ! oh how faint, how weak. 

Language fades before thy spell ! 
Why should feeling ever speak. 

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? 
Friendship's balmy words* may feign. 

Love's are ev'n more false than they; 
Oh ! 'tis only Music's strain 

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray I 



IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED. 

It is not the tear at this moment shed. 

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, 

That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, 
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 



46 IRISH MELODIES. 



» 



'Tis the tear, tlirough many a long day wept, 

'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 
^Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, 

When all lighter griefs have faded. 

Thus his memory, like some holy light, 

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, 
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, 

When we think how he lived but to love them. 
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume 

Where buried saints are lying, 
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom 

From the image he left there in dying 1 



THE OEIGIN OF THE HARP. 

'Tis believed that this Harp which I wake now for thee. 
Was a Siren of old, who sang under the sea ; 
And who often, at eve, throfhgh the bright waters roved, 
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved. 

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep. 
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep. 
Till Heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm, 
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form. 

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smiled the same- 
While her sea beauties gracefully formed the light frame : 
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, 
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell. 




*. 1^ 



■y- 



LOVE'S YOUNG DB.EAM. 47 

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known 

To mingle love's language with sorrow^ s sad tone; 

Till thou- didst divide them^ and teach the fond lay 

To speak love when I^m near thee, and grief when away ! 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

Oh ! the dayaS,re gone, when Beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove; 
When my dream of life, from morn till nighty 
Was love, still love. 
New hope may bloom, 
And days may come 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream : 
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream. 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar. 

When wild youth's past; 
Though he win the wise, who frowned before, 
To smile at last : 
He'll never meet 
A joy so sweet. 
In all his noon of fame. 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame. 
And, at every close, she blushed to hear 
The one loved name. 



48 IRISH MELODIES. 

No, — that hallowed form is ne'er forgot 

Which first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory^s waste. 
'Twas odor fled 
As soon as shed; 
'Twas morning's winged dream ; 
'Twas a light, that ne'er can |||ine again 

On life's dull stream : 
Oh ! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 
. On life's dull stream. 



THE PKINCE^S DAY. 

• 
Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, 

And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers 

There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them. 

More formed to be grateful and blest than ours. 

But just when the chain 

Has ceased to pain. 
And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, 

4. 

There comes a new link 
Our spirits to sink — 
Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles. 

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ; 
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls. 
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day. 



THE PRINCE'S DAY. 49 

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal ! 

Though fierce to your foe^ to your friends you are true ; 
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, 
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. 
While cowards, who blight 
Tour fame, your right, 
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle ari-ay, 
The standard of Green 
In front would be seen — 
Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you summoned this minute, 

You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, 
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, 
When roused by her foe, on her Prince's Day. 

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded 

In hearts which have suifered too much to forget ; 
And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded. 
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. 
The gem may be broke 
By many a stroke, 
But nothing can cloud its native ray ; 

Each fragment will cast % 

A light to the last — 
And thus, Erin, my country, though broken thou art, 

There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; 
A spirit which beams through each suffering part. 
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day. 



50 IRISH MELODIES. 



WEEP ON, WEEP ON. 

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past ; 

Your dreams of pride are o'er ; 
The fatal chain is round you cast. 

And you are men no more. 
In vain the hero's heart hath bled ; 

The sage's tongue hath warned in vain, — 
Oh, Freedom ! once thy flame hath fled, 

It never lights again ! 

Weep on — perhaps in after days. 

They'll learn to love your name ; 
When many a deed may wake in praise 

That long hath slept in blame. 
And when they tread the ruined aisle 

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile 

Could conquer hearts so brave ? 

"Twas fate," they'll say, ^^ a wayward fate, 

Your web of discord wove ; 
And, while your tyrants joined in hate, 

You never joined in love. 
But hearts fell off that ought to twine, 

And man profaned what God had given, 
Till some were heard to curse the shrine 

Where others knelt to heaveui" 



LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 51 



LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 

Lesbia hatli a beaqjing eye, 

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
Right and left its arrows fly, 

But what they aim at no one dreameth. 
Sweeter His to gaze upon 

My Nora^s lid that seldom rises ; 
Few its looks, but every one, 

Like unexpected light, surprises. 

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear. 
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, 
Beauty lies 
In many eyes. 
But love in yours, my Nora Creina ! 

Lesbia wears a robe of gold. 

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, 
Not a charm of beauty's mould 

Presumes to stay where nature placed it. 
Oh, my Norah's gown for me. 

That floats as wild as mountain breezes. 
Leaving every beauty free 

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. 

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear. 
My simple, graceful Nora Creina, 
Nature's dress 
Is loveliness — 
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. 



52 IRISHMELODIES. 

Lesbia hath a wit refined, 

But when its points are gleaming round us, 
Who can tell if they're designed 

To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? 
Pillowed on my Nora^s heart 

In safer slumber Love reposes — 
Bed of peace ! whose roughest part 
Is but the crumpling of the roses. 

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, 
My mild, my artless Nora Creina, 
Wit, though bright, 
Hath no such light 
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina 



I SAW THY FOEM IN YOUTHFUL PKIME 

I SAW thy form in youthful prime, 

Nor thought that pale decay 
Would steal before the steps of Time, 

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
Yet still thy features wore that light. 

Which fleets not with the breath ; 
And life ne'er looked more truly bright 

Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 

As streams that run o'er golden mines, 

Yet humbly, calmly glide, 
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 



BY TRAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 53 

Soj veiled beneatli the simplest guise, 

Thy radiant genius shone, 
And that which charmed all other eyes 

Seemed worthless in thine own, Mary ! 

If souls could always dwell above. 

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 
Or could we keep the souls we love, 

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 
Though many a gifted mind we meet. 

Though fairest forms we see, 
To live with them is far less sweet 

Than to remember thee, Mary ! 



BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE, 

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore 
Skylark never warbles o'er. 
Where the cliff hangs high and steep. 
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. 
^^ Here, at least," he calmly said, 
^^ Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
Ah ! the good Saint little knew 
What that wily sex can do. 

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, — 
Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
She had loved him well and long, 
Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong. 



54 IRISH MELODIES. 

Whereso^er the Saint would fly, 
Still he heard her light foot nigh ; 
East or west, where'er he turned, 
Still her eyes before him burned. 

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, 
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; 
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er 
Woman's smile can haunt him there 
But nor earth nor heaven is free 
From her power, if fond she be : 
Even now, while calm he sleeps, 
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 

Fearless she had tracked his feet 
To this rocky, wild retreat ; 
And, when morning met his view, 
Her mild glances met it too. 
Ah ! your saints have cruel hearts ! 
Sternly from his bed he starts. 
And, with rude, repulsive shock. 
Hurls her from the beetling rock, 

Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave 
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave 
Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late) 
Felt her love, and mourned her fate. 
When he said, " Heaven rest her soul !" 
Eound the Lake like music stole ; 
And her ghost was seen to glide. 
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide ! 



NAY, TELL ME NOT. 55 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 

Sue is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 

And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, 

For her heart is in his grave lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 
Every note which he loved awaking ; — 

Ah I little they think, who delight in her strains. 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 

He had lived for his love, for his country. he died. 
They were all that to life had entwined him ; 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest 
When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
From her own loved island of sorrow. 



NAi:, TELL ME NOT. 

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns 
One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; 

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns 
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yot. 



50 IRISH MELODIES. 

Ne'er hatli a beam 

Been lost in the stream 
That ever was shed from thy form or soul ; 

The spell of those eyes^ 

The balm of thy sighs, 
Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl. 
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal 

One blissful dream of the heart for me ; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower 
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine ; 
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, 
But bathed the other with mantling wine. 
Soon did the buds 
That drank of the floods 
Distilled by the rainbow decline and fade ; 
While those which the tide 
Of ruby had dyed 
All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid 
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me ; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal. 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 



WHAT THE BEE IS 10 THE FLOWERET. 57 



AVENGING AND BRIGHT. 

Avenging and bright falls the swift sword of Erin 
On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed ! — 

For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, — 

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. 

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, 
When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore — 

By the billows of war^ which so often, high swelling, 
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore — 

We swear to revenge them ! — no joy shall be tasted. 
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, 

Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, 
Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head ! 

Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollections, 
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ; 

Though sweet axe our friendships, our hopes, our affections^ 
Eevenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all I 



WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. 



HE. 



What the bee is to the floweret. 
When he looks for honey-dew. 

Through the leaves that close embower it. 
That, my love, I'll be to you. 



oS IRISH MELODIES. 

SHE. 

What the bank, with verdure glowing, 
Is to waves that wander near, 

Whispering kisses, while they're going, 
That I'll be to you, my dear. 

But, they say, the bee's a rover. 
Who will fly when sweets are gone ; 

And, when once the kiss is over. 
Faithless brooks will wander on. 

HE. 

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 
If sunny banks will wear away, 

'Tis but right, that bees and brooks 

Should sip and kiss them, while they may. 



LOVE AND THE NOVICE. 

^^ Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, 

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend ; 
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers 
To heaven in mingled odor ascend. 
Do not disturb our calm, oh Love ! 
So like is thy form to the cherubs above. 
It well might deceive such hearts as ours.'' 

Love stood near the Novice and listened. 
And Love is no novice in taking a hint; 



THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED. 59 

His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened, 
His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint. 
'^ Who would have thought/' the urchin cries, 
" That Love could so well, so gravely disguise 

His wandering wings, and wounding eyes V 

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, 
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. 
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, 
He brightens the censer's flame tvith his sighs. 
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, 
And angels themselves would admit such a guest, 
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest. 



THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES 

AND WOES. 

This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes. 

That chase one another like waves of the deep, — 
Each brightly or iarkly, as onward it flows. 

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. 
So closely our whims on our miseries tread. 

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried ; 
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed. 

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. 
But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy. 

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, 
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, 

And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. 



60 IRISH MELODIES. 

When Hylas was sent witli his urn to the fount, 

Through fields full of light, with heart full of play, 
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount. 

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. 
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted 

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine. 
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, 

And left their light urns all as empty as mine. 
But pledge me the goblet — while Idleness weaves 

These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see 
One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves 

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me. 



OH ! THE SHAMEOCK. 

Through Erin's isle, 
To sport awhile. 
As Love and Valor wandered. 
With W^it, the sprite. 
Whose quiver bright 
A thousand arrows squandered ; 
Where'er they pass, 
A triple grass 
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 
As softly green 
As emerald seen 
Through purest crystal gleaming. 
Oh ! the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! 



oh! the shamrock. t)l 

Chosen leaf 
Of Bard and Chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

Says Valor, ^^ See, - 
They spring for me, 
Those leafy gems of morning?'^ — 
Says Love, '^ No, no, 
For me they grow. 
My fragrant path adorning/' 
But Wit perceives 
The triple leaves. 
And cries, ^^ Oh ! do not sever *^ 

A type that blends 
Three godlike friends. 
Love, Valor, Wit, for ever V 
Oh ! the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock 1 
Chosen leaf 
Of Bard and Chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

So firmly fond 

May last the bond 
They wove that morn together, 

And ne'er may fall 

One drop of gall 
On Wit's celestial feather ! 

May Love, as twine 

His flowers divine. 
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ! 



02 -IRISH MELODIES. 

May Valor ne'er 

A standard rear 

Against the cause of Freedom ! 

Oh ! the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! 

Chosen leaf 

Of Bard and Chief, 

Old Erin's native Shamrock ! ^ 



AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. 

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly 
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; 
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air. 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, 
And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky ! 

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear. 
When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear ; 
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, 
I think, oh, my love ! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls, 
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. 



ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. 

One bumper at parting ! — though many 
Have circled the board since we met, 

The fullest, the saddest of any 
Remains to be crowned by us yet. 



ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. G3 

The sweetness that pleasure hath in it 

Is always so slow to come forth, 
That seldom, alas ! till the minute 

It dies, do we know half its worth. 
But come, — may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, 

They die 'midst the te'^rs of the cup. 

As onward we journey, how pleasant 

To pause and inhabit awhile 
Those few sunny spots, like the present, 

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! 
But Time, like a pitiless master. 

Cries ^^ Onward !'' and spurs the gay hours — 
Ah, never doth Time travel faster. 

Than when his way lies among flowers. 
But come— may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

We saw how the sun looked in sinking. 

The waters beneath him how bright; 
And now let our farewell of drinking 

Besemble that farewell of light. 
You saw how he finished, by darting 

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim — 
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting. 

In full liquid glory, like him. 



64 IRISH MELODIES. 

And oil ! may our life's happy measure 
Of moments like this be made up ; 

'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure, 
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup. 



'TIS THE LAST EOSE OF SUMMER. 

'Tis the last rose of summer 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

ril not leave thee, thou lone one. 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may /follow. 
When friendships decay. 

And from Love's shining circle 
The gems drop away ! 



THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 65 

When true hearts lie withered. 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone? 



THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 

The young May moon is beaming, love. 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love. 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove. 
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
Then awake ! — the heavens look bright, my dear, 
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear. 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. 

Now all the world is sleeping, love. 

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love. 

And I, whose star, 

More glorious far, 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 
Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, 
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, 

Or, in watching the flight 

Of bodies of light. 
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. 



66 IRISH MELODIES. 



THE MINSTREL-BOY. 

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you'll find him; 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him.-^ 
'^ Land of song !'^ said the warrior-bard, 

'^ Though all the world betrays thee, 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee !" 

The Minstrel fell I — but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder; 
And said, " No chains shall sully thee. 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery !" 



THE SONG OF O'RUARK, 

PRINJE OF BREFFNI. 

The valley lay smiling before me. 
Where lately I left her behind ; 

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me 
That saddened the joy of my mind. 



THE SONG OF 0' RU ARK. 67 

I looked for the lamp whicli, slie told me, 
Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned ; 

But, though darkness began to infold me. 
No lamp from the battlements burned. 

I flew to her chamber — ^twas lonely, 

As if the loved tenant lay dead ; — 
Ah, would it were death, and death only ! 

But no, the young false one hath fled. 
And there hung the lute that could soften 

My very worst pains into bliss. 
While the hand that had waked it so often 

Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss. 

There was a time, falsest of women ! 

When Brefi*ni's good sword would have sought 
That man, through a million of foemen. 

Who dared but to wrong thee in thought ! 
While now — oh degenerate daughter 

Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! 
And through ages of bondage and slaughter. 

Our country shall bleed for thy shame. 

Already the curse is upon her. 

And strangers her valleys profane ; 
They come to divide — to dishonor. 

And tyrants they long will remain. 
But onward I — the green banner rearing, 

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; 
On our side is Virtue and Erin, 

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. 



68 IRISH MELODIES. 



OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN, 

Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our own 

In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 

Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, 

And the bee banquets on thromgh a whole year of flowers ; 

W^here the sun loves to pause, 
With so fond a delay. 

That the night only draws 
A thin veil o'er the day ; 
Where simply to feel that we breathe, lhat we live. 
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. 

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, 
W^e should love as they loved in the first golden time ; 
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. 

With affection as free 

From decline as the bowers, 

And with hope, like the bee. 
Living always on flowers. 
Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
And our death come on hoV and calm as the night. 



FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER. 69 



FAREWELL !— BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME 
THE HOUR. 

Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain, 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup. 

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 

My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night ; 

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles. 

And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles — 

Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer. 

Some kind voice had murmured, '^ I wish he were here V 

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled — 
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 



TO IRISH MELODIES. 



OH ! DOUBT ME NOT. 

Oh ! doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when Folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal, Reason, 

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. 
Although this heart was early blown, 

And fairest hands disturbed the tree, 
They only shook some blossoms down. 
Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when Folly made me rove. 
And now the vestal, Reason, 

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love 

And though my lute no longer 

May sing of Passion's ardent spell, 
Yet trust me, all the stronger 
I feel the bliss I do not tell. 
The bee through many a garden roves, 
And hums his lay of courtship o'er, 
But, when he finds the flower he loves. 
He settles there, and hums no more. 
Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when Folly kept me free. 
And now the vestal, Reason, 

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. 



YOU REMEMBER ELLEN, 



YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 

How meekly she blessed her humble lot, 
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride. 

And love was the light of their lowly cot. 
Together they toiled through winds and rains, 

Till William, at length, in sadness said, 
^^ We must seek our fortunes on other plains;" — 

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. 

They roamed a long and a weary way. 

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, 
When, now, at close of one stormy day, 

They see a proud castle among the trees. 
^' To-night,'' said the youth, ^^ we'll shelter there ; 

The wind blows cold, the hour is late :" 
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air. 

And the Porter bowed as they passed the gate. 

^' Now, welcome, Lady !" exclaimed the youth, 

" This castle is thine, and these dark woods all !" 
She believed him crazed, but his words were truth, 

For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! 
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves 

What William the stranger wooed and wed ; 
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves. 

Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



FD MOUEN THE HOPES. 

I'd mourn the hopes tliat leave me, 

If thy smiles had left me too ; 
rd weep when friends deceive me, 

If thou wert, like them, untrue. 
But while Tyq thee before me, 

With hearts so warm and eyes so bright, 
No clouds can linger o'er me, 

That smile turns them all to light. 

^Tis not in fate to harm me, 

While fate leaves thy love to me ; 
'Tis not in joy to charm me, 

Enless joy be shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long, an endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee, 

My own love, my only dear ! 

And though the hope be gone, love, 

That long sparkled o'er our way, 
Oh ! we shall journey on, love. 

More safely, without its ray. 
Far better lights shall win me 

Along the paths I've yet to roam : — 
The mind that burns within me. 

And pure smiles from thee at home. 



COME O'ER THE SEA. 73 

ThuS; when the lamp that lighted 

The traveller at first goes out, 
He feels awhile benighted, 

And looks around in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect clearing, 

By cloudless starlight on he treads. 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 

As that light which Heaven sheds. 



COME O^ER THE SEA. 



Come o'er the sea. 

Maiden, with me, 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows; 

Seasons may roll, ' - 

But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
Tis life where thou art, His death where thou art not. 

Then, come o'er the sea, 

Maiden, with me, 
Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 

Seasons may roll, 

But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 

Was not the sea 
Made for the Free, 



IRISH MELODIES. 

Land for courts and chains alone ? 

Here we are slaves, 

But, on the waves, 
Love and Liberty's all our own. 
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, 
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us — 

Then, come o'er the sea, • 

Maiden, with jne, 
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows ; 

Seasons may roll, 

But the true soul 
Burns the same, where'er it goes. 



HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED? 

Has sorrow thy young days shaded. 

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? 
Too fast have those young days faded, 

That, even in sorrow, were sweet ? 
Does Time with his cold wing wither 

Each feeling that once was dear? — 
Then, child of misfortune, come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 

Has Love to that soul so tender, 
Been like our Lagenian mine, 

Where sparkles of golden splendor 
All over the surface shine ? 



NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. 75 

But if in pursuit we go deeper, 

Allured by the glearu that shone, 
Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, 

Like Love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has Hope, like the bird in the story, -» 

That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman's glittering glory — 

Has Hope been that bird to thee ? 
On branch after branch alighting. 

The gem did she still display. 
And, when nearest and most inviting. 

Then waft the fair gem away ? 

If thus the young hours have fleeted. 

When sorrow itself looked bright ; 
If thus the fair hope hath cheated, 

That led thee along so light ; 
If thus the cold world now wither 

Each feeling that once was dear : — 
Come, child of misfortune, come hither, 

ril weep with thee tear for tear. 



NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. 

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear. 

When, half awakiDg from fearful slumbers. 
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,- 



76 IRISH MELODIES. 

Than that voice, when all forsaken, 
This heart long had sleeping lain, 

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken 
To such benign, blessed sounds again. 

Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the stealing 

Of summer wind through some wreathed shell- 
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling 

Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 
'Twas whispered balm — 'twas sunshine spoken I— 

I'd live years of grief and pain 
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken 

By such benign, blessed sounds again. 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 

When first I met thee, warm and young. 

There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt thee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied, 
Still clung with hope the fonder. 
And thought, though false to all beside. 
From me thou couldst not wander 
But go, deceiver ! go, — 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low. 

Deserves that thou sliouldst break it 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 

When every tongue thy follies named, 

I fled the unwelcome story; 
Or found, in even the faults threy blamed, 

Some gleams of future glory; 
I still was true when nearer friends 

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
The heart that now thy falsehood rends, 
Would then have bled to right thee. 
But go, deceiver ! go, — 

Some day, perhaps, fhou'lt waken 
From pleasure's dream to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 

Even now, though youth its bloom has shedj 

No lights of age adorn thee : 
The few who loved thee once, have fled, 

And they who flatter scorn thee. 
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, 

No genial ties enwreath it } 
The smiling there, like light on graves, 
Has rank cold hearts beneath it. 

Go — go — though worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
Tor all thy guilty splendor ! 

And days may come, thou false one, yet. 
When even those ties shall sever; 

When thou wilt call, with vain regret, 
On her thou'st lost for ever; 



7^ 



* 



78 IRISH MELODIES. 

On her who, in thy fortune^ s fall 

With smiles had still received thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believed thee. 
Go— -go — 'tis vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 

Than guilt and shame have made thee. 



WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping 

Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves, 
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, 

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. 
But oh ! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright. 
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, 
She saw History write, 
With a pencil of light 
That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name ! 

^' Hail, Star of my Isle !'^ said the Spirit, all sparkling 

With beams such as break from her own dewy skies — 
^^ Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, 
I've watched for some glory like thine to arise. 
For, though Heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, 
And unhallowed they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ; — 
But oh ! there is not 
One dishonoring blot 
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name ! 



THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 79 

^^ Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, 

The grandest, the purest, even tJiou hast yet known; 
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, 

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. 
At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood, 
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame — 
And, bright o^er the flood 
Of her tears and her blood, 
Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name V^ 



THE TIME rVE LOST IN WOOING. 

The time Tve lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In woman's eyes. 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Though wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorned the lore she brought me, 

My only books ^ 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly's all they've taught me. 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted. 

Like him the Sprite, 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
Like him, too, Beauty won me. 
But while her eyes were on me, 



80 IRISH MELODIES. 

If once their ray 
Was turned away, 
I winds could not outrun me. 

And are those follies going ? 

And is my proud heart growing 
Too cold or wise 
For brilliant eyes 

Again to set it glowing ? 

No — vain, alas ! th' endeavor 

From bonds so sweet to sever ;— 
Poor Wisdom's chance 
Against a glance 

Is now as weak as ever. 



OH, WHEREAS THE SLAVE. 

OH; where's the slave so lowly 
Condemned to chains unholy, 
• Who, could he burst 
His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly ? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it. 
Would wait till time decayed it. 
When thus its wing 
At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it ? 
Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all. 
Who live to weep our fall ! 



COME, KEST IN THIS BOSOM. 81 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouched and blowing, 

Than that whose braid 

Is plucked to shade 
The brows with victory glowing. 
We tread the land that bore us, 
Her green flag glitters o'er us. 

The friends weVe tried 

Are by our side. 
And the foe we hate before us. 

Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall. 



COME, EEST IN THIS BOSOM. 

Come, rest in^this bosom, my own stricken deer. 

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here : 

Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, 

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 

Oh 1 what was love made for, if ^tis not the same 
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? 
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 

Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss, 
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, — 
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue. 
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too ! 



82 IRISH MELODIES. 



'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER. 

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, 

Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead — 
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, 

Looked upward, and blessed the pure ray, ere it fled. 
^Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning 
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, 
That dark o'er the kingdoms of* earth is returning, 
And, darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. 

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting 
Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world 3 

When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, 
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurled. 

Oh ! never shall earth see a moment so spl^did ! 

Then, then — had one Hymn of Deliverance blended 

The tongues of all nations — how sweet had ascended 
The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee ! 

But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing ! 

And shame on the light race unworthy its good. 
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies caressing 

The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood ! 
Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision. 
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision. 
Shall long be remembered, pure, bright, and elysian, 

As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee. 



FILL THE BUMPEK FAIR. 8:^ 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 

I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 

I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, 
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. 



And such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; 

Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us. 
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. 

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning 

The*close of our day, the calm eve of our night ; — 

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning 
Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light 



r>i 



Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning. 
When passion first waked a new life through his frame, 

And his soul — like the wood that grows precious in burning- 
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ! 



FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 

Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop, we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



84 IRISH MELODIES. 

Wit's electric flame 

Ne'er so swiftly passes, 
As when through the frame 

It shoots from brimming glasses. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 

Sages can, they say, 

Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
And bring down its ray 

From the starred dominions : — 
So we, Sages, sit 

And 'mid bumpers bright'ning, 
From the heaven of Wit 

Draw down all its lightning. 



Wouldst thou know what first 

'Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit? 
It chanced upon that day, 
^ When, as bards inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us ; 
The careless Youth, when up 

To Glory's fount aspiring. 
Took nor urn nor cup 

To hide the pilfered fire in. — 



DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 85 

But oh his joy I when, round 

The halls of heaven spying, 
Among the stars he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lying. 

Some drops were in that bowl, 

Remains of last night's pleasure, 
With which the Sparks of Soul 

Mixed their burning treasure, 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us ; 
Hence its mighty power 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 

Dear Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee, 

The cold chain of silence had huno^ o'er thee lono;, 
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee^ 

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! 
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness 

Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; 
But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, 

That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 

8 



86 IRISH MELODIES. 

Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers, 

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! 
^Jro, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, 

Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine ; 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; 
I was hut as the wind, passing heedlessly over, 

And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. 



MY GENTLE HARP. 

My gentle Harp, once more I waken 

The sweetness of thy slumbering strain ; 
In tears our last farewell was taken. 

And now in tears we meet as^ain. 
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken. 

But, like those harps, whose heavenly skill 
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken. 

Thou hang'st upon the willows still. 

And yet, since thy last chord resounded. 

An hour of peace and triumph came, 
And many an ardent bosom bounded 

With hopes — that now are turned to shame. 
Yet even then, while Peace was singing 

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea. 
Though joy and hope to others bringing, 

She only brought new tears to thee. 



ASSLOWOURSHIP. 87 

Tlien^ who can ask for notes of pleasure, 

My drooping Harp, from chords like thine ? 
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure 

As ill would suit the swan's decline ! 
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, 

Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, 
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee 

Are sadly mixed — half flowers, half chains. 

But come — if yet thy frame can borrow 

One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me. 
And show the world, in chains and sorrow 

How sweet thy music still can be ; 
How gaily, e'en 'mid gloom surrounding, 

Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill — 
Like Memnon's broken image sounding, 

'Mid desolation tuneful still. 



AS SLOW OUR SHIP. 

As slow our ship her foamy track 

Against the wind was cleaving. 
Her trembling pennant still looked back 

To that dear isle 'twas leaving : — 
So loath we part from all we love. 

From all the links that bind us ; 
So turn our hearts, as on we rove. 

To those we've left behind us. 



88 IRISH MELODIES. 

When, round the bowl, of vanished yea is 

We talk, with joyous seeming, — 
With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming ; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 

To those weVe left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle, or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet. 

And nought but love is wanting; 
We think how great had been our bliss. 

If Heaven had but assigned us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we've left behind us ! 

As travellers oft look back, at eve, 

When eastward darkly going, 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consigned us. 
We turn to catch one fading rav 

Of joy that's left behind us 







>^^/^x)?^/,/^-'V^vv/-.^, ,;• 



/"Mf -'/.,) ^// 




IN THE MORNING or LIFE. 89 



IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. 

In the morning of life, wlien its cares are unknown, 

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, 
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own. 

And the light that surrounds us is all from within ; 
Oh, ^tis not, believe me, in that happy time 

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may ; — 
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, 

But affection is truest when these fade away. 

AVhen we see the first glory of youth pass us by, 

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; 
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, 

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn ; 
Then, then is the time when affection holds sway 

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; 
Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they. 

But the Love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. 

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers, 

Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth ; 
'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers 

That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. 
So it is not 'mid splendor, prosperity, mirth, 

That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears ; 
To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, 

But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out bv tears. 



90 IRISH MELODIES. 



WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH. 

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, 

Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then ; 
Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, 

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. 
And oh ! if His pain to remember how far 

From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam, 
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star 

That arose on his darkness, and guided him home. 

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came 

The revealings that taught him true love to adore, 
To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame 

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. 
O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild. 

Thou cam'st like a soft, golden calm o'er the sea; 
And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled 

On his ev'ning horizon, the light was from thee. 

And though, sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise. 

And though falsehood again would allure him to stray. 
He but turned to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, 

And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanished away. 
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, 

At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, 
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him. 

He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there. 



WREATH THE BOWL. 91 



REMEMBER. THEE. 



Remember thee ? yes, while there's life in this heart, 
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, 
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, 
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, 
But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now ? 

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert bird's nest, 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast. 



WREATH THE BOWL. 

Wreath the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest Wit can find us ; 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us. 

Should Love amid 

The wreaths be hid, 
That Joy, th' enchanter, brings us. 



92 IRISH MELODIES. 

No danger fear, 
While wine is near, 

We'll drown liim if he stings us. 
Then wreath the bowl 
With flowers of soul, 

The brightest Wit can find us; 
We^l take a flight 
Towards heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us. 

'Twas nectar fed 
Of old, 'tis said, 

Their Junes, Joves, Apollos ; 
And man may brew 
His nectar too, 

The rich receipt as follows : 
Take wine like this, 
Let looks of bliss 

Around it well be blended, 
Then bring Wit's beam 
To warm the stream, 

And there's your nectar splendid ! 
So, wreath the bowl 
With flowers of soul. 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight 
Towards heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us. 



WHENE ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. 93 

Say, wliy did Time 

His glass sublime 
Fill up with sands unsightly, 

When wine, he knew, 

Euns brisker through. 
And sparkles far more brightly ? 

Oh, lend it us, 

And, smiling thus, 
The glass in two we'll sever, 

Make pleasure glide 

In double tide. 
And fill both ends for ever ! 

Then wreath the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest Wit can find us ; 

We'll take a flight 

Towards heaven to-night. 
And leave dull earth behind us. 



WHENEVER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. 

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, 

So full of hope, and joy, and light. 
As if no cloud could ever rise. 

To dim a heaven so purely bright — 
I sigh to think how soon that brow 

In grief may lose its every ray, 
And that light heart, so joyous now, 

Almost forget it once was gay. 



91 IRISH MELODIES. 

For time will come with all its blight.^, 

The ruined hope, the friend unkind, 
And love, that leaves where'er it lights, 

A chilled or burning heart behind : — 
While youth, that now like snow appears. 

Ere sullied by the darkening rain, 
•When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears 

Will never shine so bright again. 



IF THOU'LT BE MINE. 

If thou' It be mine, the treasures of air, 
Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet ; 

Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair, 

Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet, 
Shall be ours — if thou wilt be mine, love ! 

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, 
A voice divine shall talk in each stream, 

The stars shall look like worlds of love, 
And this earth be all one beautiful dream 
In our eyes — if thou wilt be mine, love ! 

And thoughts whose source is hidden and high, 
Like streams that come from heavenward hills. 

Shall keep our hearts, like meads that lie 
To be bathed by those eternal rills. 

Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love ! 



TOLADIESEYES. 95 

All this and more the Spirit of Love 

Can breathe o^er them who feel his spells ; 

That heaven which forms his home above, 
He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, 
As thou'lt own, if thou wilt be mine, love ! 



TO LADIES^ EYES. 

To Ladies' eyes a round, boy. 

We can't refuse, we can't refuse, 
Though bright eyes so abound, boy, 

'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. 
For thick as stars that lighten 

Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, 
The countless eyes that brighten 

This earth of ours, this earth of ours. 
But fill the cup — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall. 
We're sure to find Love there, boy. 

So dr;nk them all ! so drink them all ! 

Some looks there are so holy. 

They seem but given, they seem but given, 
As shining beacons, solely. 

To light to heaven, to light to heaven. 
While some — oh ! ne'er believe them — 

With tempting ray, with tempting ray, 
Would lead us (God forgive them !) 

The other way, the other way. 



96 IRISH MELODIES. 

But fill the cup — where'er, boy^ 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 

We're sure to find Love there, boy, 
So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 

In some, as in a mirror. 

Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed; 
But shun the flattering error, 

'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. 
Himself has fixed his dwelling 

In eyes we know, in eyes we know, 
And lips — but this is telling — 

So here they go ! so here they go ! 
Fill up, fill up — where'er, boy. 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We're sure to find Love there, boy, 

So drink them all ! so drink them all i 



FORGET NOT THE FIELD. 

Forget not the field where they perished, 

The truest, the last of the brave. 
All gone — and the bright hope we cherished 

Gone with them and quenched in their grave ! 

Oh ! could we from death but recover 
Those hearts as they bounded before, 

In the face of high heaven to fight over 
That combat for freedom once more ; — 




-^^^/^'" ;<^/?//^ ^/>y>7^' 



THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE. 97 

Could the cliain for an instant be riven 

Which tyranny flung round us then, 
No I His not in Man, nor in Heaven^ 

To let Tyranny bind it again ! 

But 'tis past — and though blazoned in story 

The name of our victor may be, 
Accurst is the march of that glory 

Which treads o*er the hearts of the free. 

Far dearer the grave or the prison 

Illumed by one patriot's name, 
Than the trophies of all who have risen 

On Liberty's ruins to fame ! 



THEY MAY HAIL AT THIS LIFE. 

They may rail at this life — from the hour I began it, 

I found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; 
And, until they can show me some happier planet, 

More social and bright, I'll content me with fchis. 
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes, 

As before me this moment enraptured I see, 
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, 

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them 
New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, 

Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them 
They've none, even there, more enamored than I. 
9 



98 HUSH MELODIES. 

Aud, as long as this harp can be wakened to love, 
And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, 

They may talk as they will of their Edens above. 
But this earth is the planet for you, love^ and me. 

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor, 

At twilight so often we've roamed through the dew. 
There are maidens, perhaps^ who have bosoms as tender, 

And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. • 

But though they were even more bright than the queen 

Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea. 
As I never those fair young celestials have seen^ 

Why — this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, 

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare. 
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, 

Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare 
Oh ! think what a world we should have of it here, 

If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, 
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, 

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me. 



on ! rOK THE SWOKDS OF FOEMER TIME ! 

Oh ! for the swords of former time ! 

Oh ! for the men who bore them I 
When, armed for Right, they stood sublime, 

And tyrants crouched before them ! 



ne'er ask the HOUPt. 99 

When free yet^ ere courts began 

With honors to enslave him, 
The best honors worn by Man 

Were those which Virtue gave him. 
Oh for the sword, &c., &c. 

Oh ! for the Kings who flourished then ! 

Oh ! for the pomp that crowned them ! 
When hearts and hands of free-born men 

Were all the ramparts round them ! 
When, safe built on bosoms true, 

The throne was but th^ centre, 
Round which Love a circle drew. 

That Treason durst not enter. 
Oh ! for the Kings who flourished then ! 

Oh ! for the pomp that crowned them ! 
When hearts and hands of free-born men 

Were all the ramparts round them I 



NE^ER ASK THE HOUR. 

Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us 

How Time deals out his treasures ? 
The golden moments lent us thus 

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. 
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, 

I'd number each glorious second; 
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, 

Too quick and sweet to be reckoned. 



IOC HUSH MELODIES. 

Then fill the cup — what is it to us 

How time his circle measures ? 
The fairy hours we call up thus 

Obey no wand but Pleasure's. 

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, 

Till Care, one summer's morning, 
Set up, among his smiling flowers, 

A dial by way of warning. 
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, 

As long as its light was glowing, 
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole od, 

And how fast that light was going. 
So fill the cup — what is it to us 

How time his circle measures ? 
The fairy hours we call up thus 

Obey no wand but Pleasure's. 



SAIL OX, SAIL ON. 



Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark — 

Wherever blows the welcome wind, 
It cannot lead to scenes more dark, 

More sad than those we leave behind. 
Each wave that passes seems to say, 

^^ Though death beneath our smile may be, 
Less cold we are, less false than they, 

Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee." 



1 HE PARALLEL. 101 

Sail on, sail on — through endless space — 

Through calm — through tempest — stop no more : 
The stormiest sea's a resting place 

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. 
Or — if some desert land we meet, 

Where never yet false-hearted men 
Profaned a world that else were sweet, — 

Then rest thee, bark^ but not till then. 



THE PARALLEL. 

Yes, sad one of Sion — if closely resembling. 

In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart — 

If drinking deep, deep of the same ^' cup of trembling'^ 
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. 

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, 
And fallen from her head is the once royal crown ; 

In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, 
And, ^^ while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down." 

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning. 
Die far from the home it were life to behold ; 

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning. 
Remember the bright things that blessed them of old. 

Ah, well we may call her like thee, ^^the Forsaken, '^ 
Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves ; 

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken. 
Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves ! 
9* 



102 I R r S II M E L D I E S. 

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came there tho morrow 
That shines out^ at h\st, on the longest dark niglit. 

When the sceptre^ that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, 
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight. 

^Vhen that cup, which for others the proud Golden City 
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; 

And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, 
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships. 

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over 
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, 

And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover, 
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust. 



DRINK OF THIS CUP. 

Drink of this cup — you'll find there's a spell iu 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
Would you forget the dark world we are in, 

Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it ; 
V>nt would you rise above earth, till akiu 

'i'o Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. 
Send round the cup — for oh ! there's a spell in 

Irs every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 



. DRINK OF THIS CUP. 103 

Never was philter formed with such power 

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing ; 
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, 

A harvester gold in the fields it stood laughing. 
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled 

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, 
This wonderful juice from its core was distilled 

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. 
Then drink of the cup — you'll find there's a spell in 

Its every drop Against the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 

And though, perhaps — but breathe it to no one — 

Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, 
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, 

Yet ^tis not less potent for being unlawful. 
And even though it taste of the smoke of that flame 

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden — 
Fill up — there's a fire in some hearts I could name, 

Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and huideo. 
So drink of the cup — for oh ! there's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality — 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 



104 IRISH MELODIES, 



THE FORTUNE-TELLER. 

Down in the valley come meet me to-niglit, 
And ril tell you your fortune truly 

As ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light, 
To a young maiden, shining as newly. 

But, for the world, let no one be nigh. 
Lest haply the stars should deceive me ; 

Such secrets between you and me and the sky 
Should never go farther, believe me. 

If at that hour the heavens be not dim, 
My science shall call up before you 

A male apparition — the image of him 
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you. 

And if to that phantom you'll be kind, 
So fondly around you he'll hover. 

You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find 
'Twixt him and a true living lover. 

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, 
He'll kneel with a warmth of devotion — 

An ardor of which such an innocent sprite 
You'd scarcely believe had a notion. 

What other thoughts and events may arise, 
As in destiny's book I've not seen them. 

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes 
To settle, ere morning, between them. 



O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. 105 



OH, YE DEAD ! 

Oh, ye Dead ! oh; ye Dead ! whom we know by the light you give 
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live^ 

Why leave you thus your graves, 

In far off fields and waves, 
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed ; 

To haunt this spot, where all 

Those eyes that wept your fall, 
And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead ? 

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan ; 

And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone ; 

But still thus, even in death, 

So sweet the living breath 
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wandered o'er, 

That ere, condemned we go 

To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow, 
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more ! 



O'DONOHUE^S MISTKESS. 

Of all the fair months that round the sun 
In light-linked dance their circles run, 

Sweet May, shine thou for me ; 
For still, when thy earliest beams arise, 
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies 

Sweet May, returns to me. 



106 ■ IRISH MELODIES. 

Of all the bright haunts where daylight leaves 
Its lingering smile on golden eves, 

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me ; 
For, when the last April sun grows dim, 
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him 

Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. 

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore 
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore, 

White Steed, most joy to thee ; 
Who still, with the first young glance of spring, 
From under that glorious lake dost bring 

My love, my Chief, to me. 

White, white as the sail some bark unfurls. 
When newly launched, thy white mane curl 5, 

Fair Steed, as white and free ; 
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, 
Glide o'er the blue wave, scattering flowers 

Around my love and thee. 

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, 
Whose lovers beneath the cold waves lie. 

Most sweet that death will be. 
Which, under the next May evening's light. 
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, 

Dear love, 1^11 die for thee. 



OH, BANQUET NOT. 107 



ECHO. 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 

To music at night, 
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, 
Goes answering light ! 

Yet Love hath echoes truer far. 

And far more sweet. 
Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star, 
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar. 

The songs repeat. 

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere. 

And only then, — 
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear, 
Is by that one, that only dear, 

Breathed back again. 



OH, BANQUET NOT. 

Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers 
Where youth resorts — but come to me ; 

For mine's a garden of faded flowers. 
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. 

And there we shall have our feast of tears. 
And many a cup in silence pour ; 



108 IRISH MELODIES. 

Our guests^ the shades of former years, 
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. 

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs 

Their lifeless leaves around us shed. 
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows. 

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. 
Or, while some blighted laurel waves 

Its branches o'er the dreary spot, 
We'll drink to those neglected graves, 

Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot. 



THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. 

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, 
The night's long hours still find me thinking 

Of thee, thee, only thee. 
When friends are met, and goblets crowned. 
And smiles are near that once enchanted, 
Unreached by all that sunshine round, 
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted 
By thee, thee, only thee. 

Whatever in fame's high path could waken 
My spirit once is now forsaken 

For thee, thee, only thee. 
Like shores by which some headlong bark 
To the ocean hurries, resting never, 



SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT. 109 

Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark 
I know not, heed not, hastening ever 
To thee, thee, only thee. 

I have not a joy but of thy bringing, 

And pain itself seems sweet when springing 

From thee, thee, only thee. 
Like spells that nought on earth can break. 

Till lips that know the charm have spoken, 
This heart, howe'er the world may wake 
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken 
By thee, thee, only thee. 



SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT. 

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave 
To our country a name is withdrawn from all eyes ? 

Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave 
Where the first — where the last of her Patriots lies ? 

No — faint though the death-song may fall from his lips, 

Though his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost. 

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse. 

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ! 

What a union of all the afi'ections and powers 
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined. 

Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre was ours, 
While its mighty circumference circled mankind. 
10 



110 IRISH MELODIES. 

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, 

Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime — 

Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he 
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time ; 

That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom 
And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul, 

A nation overleaped the dark bounds of her doom, 
And for one sacred instant, touched Liberty^s goal — 

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank at the source 

Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, 

And tlie yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown ; 

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave 

Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone 
through, 
As clear as the brooFs '^ stone of lustre,'' that gave. 

With the flash of the gem, its solidity too — 

Who that ever approached him, when free from the crowd. 

In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed, 

x\s if each brought a new civic crown for his head — 

Is there one who had thus, through his orbit of life. 

But at distance observed him — through glory, through blame, 

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, 

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same — 



OH, THE SIGHT ENTEANCING. Ill 

Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns 

Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is shrined — 

O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns 
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind. 



Oil, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 

Oh, the sight entrancing, 

When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files arrayed 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes in the gay wind dancing ! 
When hearts are all high beating. 
And the trumpet's voice repeating 

That song whose breath 

May lead to death. 
But never to retreating. 
Oh the sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files arrayed 

With helm and blade. 
And plumes in the gay wind dancing. 

Yet, His not helm or feather — 

For ask yon despot, whether 
His plumed bands 
Could bring such hands 

And hearts as ours toi>;ether. 



112 IRISH MELODIES. 

Leave pomps to those who need 'em — 
Give man but heart and freedom, 
And proud he braves 
The gaudiest slaves 
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 
The sword may pierce the beaver, 
Stone walls in time may sever, 
'Tis mind alone, 
Worth steel and stone, 
That keeps men free for ever. 
Oh ! that sight entrancing, 
When the morning's beam is glancing 
O'er files arrayed 
With helm and blade * 

And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 



SWEET INNISFALLEN. 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well. 

May calm and sunshine long be thine ! 

How fair thou art let others tell. 
To feel how fair shall long be mine. 

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 
In memory's dream that sunny smile 

Which o'er thee on that evening fell, 
When first I saw thy fairy isle. 

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one 
Who had to turn to paths of care — 



SWEET INNISFALLEN. 113 

Through crowded haunts again to run, 
And leave thee bright and silent there ; 

No more unto thy shores to come, 

But, on the world's rude ocean tost, 
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home 

Of sunshine he had seen and lost. 

Far better in thy weeping hours 

To part from thee, as I do now, 
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, 

Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 

For, though unrivalled still thy grace. 

Thou, dost not look, as then, too blest. 
But, thus in shadow, seem'st a place 

Where erring man might hope to rest — 

Might hope to rest, and find in thee 

A gloom like Eden's on the day 
He left its shade, when every tree. 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way*. 

Weeping or smiling, lovely Isle ! 

And all the lovelier for thy tears — 
For, though but rare thy sunny smile, 

'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, 

But, when indeed they come, divine — 

The brightest light the sun e'er threw 

Is lifeless to one deam of thine. 
10- 



in IRISH MELODIES. 

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS. 

'TwAS one of those dreams that by music are brought, 
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought- 
Wheo, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, 
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. 

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those 
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, 
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er 
From Dinis' green isle to Glena's wooded shore. 

He listened — while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest. 
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; 
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, 
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. 

It seemed as if every sweet note that died here 
Was again brought to light in some airier sphere, 
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain 
That had ceased upon earth was awaking again. 

Oh ! forgive if, while listening to music, whose breath 
Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death. 
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim, 
*' Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame : 

•' Even so, though thy memory should now die away, 
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, 
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, 
Through the answering future, thy name and thy song." 



fairest! put on awhile. 115 



FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE. 

Fairest ! put on awhile 

These pinions of light I bring thee, 
And o^er thy own green isle 

In fancy let me wing thee. 
Never did Ariel's plume, 

At golden sunset, hover 
O'er scenes so full of bloom 

As I shall waft thee over. 

Fields, where the Spring delays, 

And fearlessly meets the ardor 
Of the warm Summer's gaze. 

With only her tears to guard her. 
Rocks, through myrtle boughs 

In grace majestic frowning; 
Like some bold warrior's brows 

That Love hath just been crowning. 

Islets, so freshly fair, 

That never hath bird come nigh them, 
But from his course through air 

He hath been won down by them. — 
Types, sweet maid, of thee. 

Whose look, whose blush inviting, 
Never did Love yet see 

From heaven, without aliirhting. 



116 IRISH MELODIES. 

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid, 

And caves, where the gem is sleeping, 
Bright as the tears thy lid 

Lets fall in lonely weeping. 
Glens, where Ocean comes. 

To 'scape the wild wind's rancor. 
And harbors, worthiest homes 

Where Freedom's fleet can anchor. 

Then, if, while scenes so grand, 

So beautiful, shine before thee, 
Pride for thy own dear land 

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, 
Oh, let grief come first, 

O'er pride itself victorious — 
Thinkinsr how man hath cursed 

What heaven had made so glorious. 



QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND. 

Quick ! we have but a second, 

Fill round the cup, while you may : 
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, 

And we must away, away ! 
Grasp the pleasure that's flying. 

For oh ! not Orpheus' strain 
Could keep sweet hours from dying, 

Or charm them to life airain. 



AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. 117 

Then quick ! we have but a seeoDd, 
Fill round the cup, while you may ; 

For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, 
And we must away, away ! 

See the glass, how it flushes 

Like some young Hebe's lip, 
And half meets thine, and blushes 
That thou shouldst delay to sip. 
Shame, oh shame unto thee. 

If ever thou seest that day, 
When a cup or a lip shall woo thee. 
And turn untouched away ! 

Then, quick ! we have but a second, 

Fill round, fill round while you may; 
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, 
And we must away, away ! 



AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. 

And doth not a meeting like this make amends 

For all the long years Fve been wandering away — 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends. 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? 
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine. 

The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? 
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine. 

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. 



118 IRISH MELODIES. 

What softened remembrances come o^er the heart, 

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long ! 
The sorrows, the joys, of which they once were part, 

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng. 
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, 

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, 
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced. 

The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. 

And thus, as in Memory's bark, we shall glide 

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, 
Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide. 

The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; 
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers 

That once made a garden of all the gay shore. 
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours. 

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. 

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most. 

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear, 
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost. 

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. 
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, 

To meet in some world of more permanent bliss ; 
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on. 

Is all we enjoy of each other in this. 

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, 
The more we should welcome and bless them the more, 

They're ours, when we meet, — they are lost, when we part. 
Like birds that bring summer and fly when 'tis o'er. 



THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. 119 

Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, 

Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain, 

That, fast as a feeling but touches one link. 

Her magic shall send it direct through the chain. 



THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. 

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, 

A youth whose moments had calmly flown, 

Till spells came o^er him, and, day and night. 

He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite. 

As once, by moonlight, he wandered o'er 
The golden sands of that island shore, 
A footprint sparkled before his sight — 
^Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite ! 

Beside a fountain, one sunny day. 

As bending over the stream he lay, 

There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light. 

And he saw in that mirror, the Mountain Sprite. 

He turned — but, lo ! like a startled bird, 
That spirit fled — and the youth but heard 
Sweet music, such as marks the flight 
Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. 

One night, still haunted by that bright look. 
The boy, bewildered, his pencil took. 



120 IRISH MELODIES. 

And, guided only by memory's light, 

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite. 

^ Oh ! thou, who lovest the shadow," cried 
A voice, low whispering by his side, 

' Now turn and see,'' — here the youth's delight 
Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite. 

*^ Of all the spirits of land and sea," 

Then rapt, he murmured, '^ there's none like thee, 

And oft, oh ! oft, may thy foot thus light 

In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite !" 



AS VANQUISHED ERIN. 

As vanquished Erin wept beside 

. The Boyne's ill fated river, 

She saw where Discord, in the tide, 

Had dropped his loaded quiver. 
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts, 

Where mortal eye may shun you; 
Lie hid — the stain of manly hearts 

That bled for me is on you." 

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,— 
As time too well hath taught her — 

Each year the Fiend returns again. 
And dives into that watery 

And brings, triumphant, from beneath 
His shafts of desolation, 



THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART. 121 

And sends them, winged with worse than death, 
Through all her maddening nation. 

Alas for her who sits and mourns, 

Even now, beside that river — 
Unwearied still the Fiend returns, 

And stored is still his quiver. 
" When will this end, ye Powers of Good ?" 

She weeping asks for ever ; 
But only hears from out that flood, 

The Demon answer, ^^ Never V' 



THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART. 

They know not my heart, who believe there can be 
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee ; 
W^ho think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, 
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, 
I could harm what I love — as the sun's wanton ray 
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away. 

No — beaming with light as those young features are. 
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far; 
It is not that cheek — His the soul dawning clear 
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear ; 
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair. 
Is looked up to the more, because heaven lies there ! 



11 



122 IRISH MELODIES. 



I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE 

I WISH I was by that dim lake 

AY here sinful souls their farewell take 

Of this vain world, and half-way lie 

In deatVs cold shadow, ere they die. 

There, there, far from thee. 

Deceitful world, my home should be 3 

WherC; come what might of gloom and pain, 

False hope should ne'er deceive again. 

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound 

Of unseen waters falling round; 

The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, 

Like man, unquiet even when dead ; 

These, ay, these shall wean 

My soul from life's deluding scene. 

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, 

Like willows, downward towards the tomb. 

As they, who to their couch at night 
Would win repose, first quench the light, 
So must the hopes that keep this breast 
Awake be quenched, ere it can rest. 
Cold, cold, this heart must grow. 
Unmoved by either joy or woe. 
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown 
Within their current turns to stone. 



SHE SUNG OF LOVE. 123 



SHE SUNG OF LOVE. 

She sung of Love^ while o'er her lyre 

The rosy rays of evenicg fell, 
As if to feed with their soft fire 

The soul withiu that trembling shell. 
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, 

And played around those lips that sung 
And spoke as flowers would sing and speak, 

If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. 

But soon the west no longer burned, 

Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew ; 
And when to gaze again I turned, 

The minstrel's form seemed fading too. 
As if her light and heaven's were one. 

The glory all had left that frame ; 
And from her glimmering lips the tone, 

As from a parting spirit came. 

Who ever loved, but had the thought 

That he and all he loved must part ? 
Filled with this fear, I flew and caught 

The fading image to my heart — 
And cried, " Oh Love ! is this thy doom ? 

Oh light of youth's resplendent day ! 
Must ye then lose your golden bloom, 

And thus, like sunshine, die away ?" 



124 IRISH MELODIES. 



SING— SING— MUSIC WAS GIVEN. 

Sing — sing — music was given 

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; 
Souls here, like planets in heaven, 

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. 
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks. 

But Love from the lips his true archery wings ; 
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, 
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. 
Then sing — sing — Music was given 

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; 
Souls here, like planets in heaven. 

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. 

When Love, rocked by his mother. 

Lay sleeping, as calm as slumber could make him, 
^' Hush, hush,'' said Venus, ^^ no other 

Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him." 
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while. 
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, 
And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile, 
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke. 
Then sing — sing — Music was given 

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving ; 
Souls here, like planets in heaven. 

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. 



THOUGU HUMBLE THE BANQUET. 125 



THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET. 

Though, humble the banquet to which I invite thee, 
Thou' It find there the best a poor bard can command : 

Eyes beaming with welcome shall throng round to light thee, 
And love serve the feast with his own willing hand. 

And though Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling 

Of him thou regardest her favoring ray, 
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, 

Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. 

^Tis that freedom of mind which no vulgar dominion 
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves ; 

Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, 
Hold, upwards its course to the light which it loves. 

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, 

And, with this, though of all other treasures bereaved, 

The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet 

Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received. 

Then, come — if a board so untempting hath power 
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine ; 

And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower. 
Who smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine. 

11* 



126 I RI S II M E L D I E S. 



SING, SWEET HARP. 



Sing, sweet Harp, oli sing to me 

Some song of aDcient days, 
Whose sounds, in this sad memory. 

Long-buried dreams shall raise ; — 
Some lay that tells of vanished fame, 

Whose light once round us shone : 
Of noble pride now turned to shame, 

And hopes for ever gone. — 
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; 

Alike our doom is cast. 
Both lost to all but memory, 

We live but in the past. 

How mournfully the midnight air 

Among thy chords doth sigh. 
As if it sought some echo there 

Of voices long gone by ; 
Of chieftains, now forgot, who seemed 

Th^ foremost then in fame; 
Of bards, who, once immortal deemed. 

Now sleep without a name ! — 
Tn vain, sad Harp, the midnight air 

Among thy chords doth sigh ; 
In vain it seeks an echo there 

Of voices long gone by. 

Couldst thou but call those spirits round, 
Who once, in bower and hall, 



SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE. 127 

Sate listening to thy magic sound, 

Now mute and mouldering all ; 
But no ; they would but wake to weep 

Their children's slavery ; 
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, — 

The dead, at least, are free. 
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone. 

That knell of Freedom's day. 
Or, listening to its death-like moan. 

Let me, too, die away. 



SONG OF THE BATTLE EYE. 

Time — the Ninth Century. 

To-morrow, comrade, we 

On the battle-plain must be, 
There to conquer, or both lie low ! 

The morning-star is up, — 

But there's wine still in the cup. 
And we'll take another quaiff, ere we go, boy, gc ; 
We'll take another quaff, ere we go. 

^Tis true, in manliest eyes 

A passing tear will rise. 
When we think of the friends we leave lone ; 

But what can wailing do ? 

See, our goblet's weeping too ! 
V/irli its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our ov;ii ; 
With its tears we'll chase away our own. 



128 IRISH MELODIES. 

But dayligWs stealing on; — 

The last that o'er us shone 
Saw our children around us play ; 

The next — ah ! where shall we 

And those rosy urchins be ? 
But — no matter — grasp thy sword and away, boy, away ; 
No matter — grasp thy sword and away ! 

Let those, who brook the chain 

Of Saxon or of Dane, 
Ignobly by their firesides stay ; 

One sigh to home be given. 

One heartfelt prayer to heaven 
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra ! hurra ! hurra I 
Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra ! 



THE WANDERING BARD. 

What life like that of the Bard can be, 
The wanderino; bard who roams as free 
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings. 
And, like that lark, a music brings 
Within him, where'er he comes or goes, — 
A fount that for ever flows ! — 
The world's to him like some play-ground, 
Where fairies dance their moonlight round ; 
If dimmed the turf where late they trod, 
The elves but seek some greener sod : 



THE WANDERING BARD. 129 

So, when less bright his scene of glee. 
To another away flies he. 

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, 

Without a bard to fix her bloom ? 

They tell us, in the moon's bright round. 

Things lost in this dark world are found ; 

So charms, on earth long passed and gone, 

In the poet's lay live on. — 

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim ? 

You've only to give them all to him, 

Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand. 

Can lend them life, this life beyond. 

And fix them high, in Poesy's sky, — 

Young stars that never die. 

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes, 
For, though he hath countless airy homes, 
To which his wing excursive roves, 
Yet still, from time to time, he loves 
To light upon earth and find such cheer 
As brightens our banquet here. 
No matter how far, how fleet he flies, 
You've only to light up kind young eyes, 
Such signal-fires as here are given, — 
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, 
The minute such call to love or mirth 
Proclaims he's wanting on earth. 



130 IRISH MELODIES, 



ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON. 

Alone in crowds to wander on, 

And feel that all the charm is gone 

Which voices dear and eyes beloved 

Shed round us once, where'er we roved — 

This, this the doom must be 

Of all who've loved, and lived to see 

The few bright things they thought would stay 

For ever near them, die aw^y; 

Though fairer forms around us throng, 

Their smiles to others all belong, 

And want that charm which dwells alone 

Round those the fond heart calls its own. 

Where, where the sunny brow ? 

The long-known voice — where are they now ? 

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, 

The silence answers all too plain. 

Oh what is Fancy's magic worth, 
If all her art cannot call forth 
One bliss like those we felt of old 
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold ! 
No, no— her spell is vain, — 
As soon could she bring; back ao:ain 
Those eyes themselves from out the grave, 
iVs wake again one bliss they gave. 



SONa OF INNISFAIL. 131 



rVE A SECRET TO TELL THEE. 

TvE a secret to tell thee^ but hush ! not here, — 

Oh ! not where the world its vigil keeps : 
ril seek, to whisper it in thine ear, 

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps ; 
Where Summer^s wave unmurmuring dies, 

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush ; 
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs. 

The rose saith, chidinglj, ^^ Hush, sweet, hush i^' 

There, amid the deep silence of that hour, 

When stars can be heard in ocean dip. 
Thyself shall under some rosy bower. 

Sit mute with thy finger on thy lip : 
Like him, the boy, who born among 

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, 
Sits ever thus, — his only song 

To earth and heaven, '^ Hush, all hush !" 



SONG OF INNISFAIL. 

T'hey came from a land beyond the sea, 
And now o'er the western main 

Set sail in their good ships gallantly. 
From the sunny land of Spain. 

'' Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams. 
Our destined home or grave V 



l32 IRISH MELODIES. 

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams. 
They swept the Atlantic wave. 

And, lo ! where afar o'er ocean shines 

A sparkle of radiant green, 
As though in that deep lay emerald mines, 

Whose light through the wave was seen. 
<^'Tis Innisfail— 'tis Innisfail V 

Eings o'er the echoing sea, 
While bending to heaven, the warriors hail 

That home of the brave and free. 

Then turned they unto the eastern wave 

Where now their Day-God's eye 
A look of such sunny omen gave 

As lighted up sea and sky. 
Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, 

Nor tear o'er leaf or sod. 
When first on their Isle of Destiny 

Our great forefathers trod. 



THE NIGHT DANCE. 



Strike the gay harp ! — see the moon is on high. 
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, 

Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, 
Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. 

Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest, 

That ever took wing when heaven looked brightest ! 
Again ! Again ! 



THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. im 

Oh ! could sucli heart-stirring music be heard 
In that City of Statues described by romancers, 

So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred, 
And statues themselves all start ijito dancers ! 

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears. 

And the flower of Beauty^s own garden before us -^ 
While- stars overhead leave the song of their spheres. 

And, listening to ours, hang wondering o^er us ? 
Again, that strain ! — to hear it thus sounding 

Might set even Death^s cold pulses bounding — 
Again ! Again ! 
Oh what delight when the youthful and gay. 

Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, 
Thus dance like the Hours to the music of May, 

And mingle sweet song and sunshine together ! 



THEEE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. 

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, 

And lamps from every casement shown ; 
While, voices blithe within are singing, 

That seem to say '' Come,^^ in every tone. 
Ah ! once how light, in Life's young season, 

My heart had leaped at that sweet lay ] 
Nor paused to ask of graybeard reason 

Should I the Siren call obey. 

And see — the lamps still livelier glitter. 

The siren lips more fondly sound ; 
12 



!Ji IRISH MELODIES. 

No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter 
To sink in your rosy bondage bound. 

Shall a bard whom not the world in arms 
Could bend to tyranny's rude control, 

Thus quail at sight of woman's charms. 
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul ? 

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, 

The nymphs their fetters around him cast, 
And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing, — 

Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. 
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, 

Was like that rock of the Druid race, 
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, 

But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base. 



OH ! ARKANMOEE, LOVED ARRANMORE, 

Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, 

How oft I dream of thee. 
And of those days when, by thy shore, 

I wandered young and free. 
Full many a path I've tried, since then. 

Through pleasure's flowery maze, 
But ne'er could find the bliss again 

I felt in those sweet days. 

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs 
At sunny morn I've stood_, 



LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. 135 

With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along thy flood ; 
Or^ when the western wave grew bright 

With daylight's parting wing, 
Have sought that Eden in its light 

Which dreaming poets sing; — 

That Eden, where tV immortal brave 

Dwell in a land serene, — • 

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave. 

At sunset, oft are seen. 
Ah, dream too full of saddening truth ! 

Those mansions o'er the main 
Are like the hopes I built in youth, — 

As sunny and as vain ! 



LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. 

Lay his sword by his side, — it hath served him too well. 

Not to rest near his pillow below ; 
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell. 

Its point was still turned to a flying foe. 
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death, 

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, — 
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, 

And himself unsubdued in his grave. 

Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, 

As if breathed from his brave heart's remains ; — 



136 IRISH MELODIES. 

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, 

Once sounded the war-word, '^ Burst your chains V' 

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, 
^^ Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, 

Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, — 
It hath victory's life in it y«t ! 

^^ Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, 
• Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword. 
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed. 

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 
But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use 

Of a falchion like thee on the battle-plain, — 
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, 

Leap forth from thy dark sheath again I'' 



OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WOELD OF OURS. 

Oh, could we do with this world of ours 
As thou dost with thy garden bowers, 
Eeject the weeds and keep the flowers, 

What a heaven on earth we'd make it ! 
So bright a dwelling should be our own, 
So warranted free from sigh or frown. 
That angels soon would be coming down. 

By the week or month to take it. 

Like those gay flies that wing through air, 
And in themselves a lustre bear. 



THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. irj 

A stock of liglit; still ready there, 

Whenever they wish to use it ; 
So in this world Td make for thee, 
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, 
And the flash of wit or poesy 

Break forth whenever we choose it. 

While every joy that glads our sphere 
Hath still some shadow hovering near, 
In this new world of ours, my dear. 

Such shadows will all be omitted : — 
Unless they are like that graceful one. 
Which, when thou art dancing in the sun, 
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 

Each spot where it hath flitted ! 



THE WINE-CUP IS CIECLING. 

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall. 
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining. 
Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall. 
Where his sword hangs idly shining. 
When, hark ! that shout 
From the vale without, — 
'' Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh !'' 
Every Chief starts up 
From his foaming cup. 
And " To battle, to battle !'' is the Finian's cry. 
12^^ 



IRISH MELODIES. 

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, 

And they sing such thrilling numbers, — 
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old, 

Breaking forth from their place of slumbers ! 

Spear to buckler rang 

As the minstrels sang, 
And the Sun-burst o'er them floated wide ; 

While remembering the yoke 

Which their fathers broke, 
'' On for liberty, for liberty !'^ the Finians cried. 

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, 

O'er the valley of Almhin lowering ; 
While onward moved, in the light of its fame, 
That banner of Erin, towering. 

With the mingling shock 

Eung cliff and rock, 
While, rank on rank, the invaders die : 

x\nd the shout that last 

O'er the dying passed 
Was " Victory ! victory V' — the Finian's cry. 



THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS. 

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er. 
Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore, 
And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, 
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. 



FEOMTHISHOUR. 139 

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, 
That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art ; 
And Freedom^s sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned, 
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned ? 

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and eloquence led, 
With eyes on her temple fixed, how proud was thy tread ! 
Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain, 
Or d^'ed in the porch, than thus dishonor the fane. 



FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN 

From this hour the pledge is given, 

From this hour my soul is thine : 
Come what will from earth or heaven, 

Weal or woe, thy fate be mine ! 
When the proud and great stood by thee, 

None dared thy rights to spurn ; 
And, if now they're false and fly thee. 

Shall I, too, basely turn ? 
No : — whate'er the fires that try thee, 

In the same this heart shall burn. 

Though the sea, where thou embarkest, 

Offers now no friendly shore, 
Light may come where all looks darkest, 

Hope hath life, when life seems o'er. 
And of those past ages dreaming, 

When glory decked thy brow, 



140 IRISH MELODIES. 

Ort I fondly think, thougli seeming 
So falFn and clouded now, 

Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming- 
None so bright, so blest as thou. 



SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. 

Silence is in our festal halls, — 

Sweet Son of Song ! thy course is o^er; 
In Yain on thee sad Erin calls, 

Her minstrers voice responds no more; — 
All silent as th' Eolian shell 

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, 
When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell 

At sunny morn, hath died away. 

Yet at our feasts, thy spirit long, 

Awaked by music's spell, shall rise; 
For name so linked with deathless song 

Partakes its charm and never dies : 
And even within the holy fane, 

When music wafts the soul to heaven, 
One thought to him, whose earliest strain 

Was echoed there, shall long be given. 

But where is now the cheerful day. 
The social night, when, by thy side, 

He who now weaves this parting lay 
His skilless voice with thine allied ; 



SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. 141 

And sung those whose every tone, 

When bard and minstrel long have past, 

Shall still, in sweetness all their own, 
Embalmed by fame, undying last. 

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, — 

Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, 
From thee the borrowed glory came, 

And at thy feet is now laid down. 
Enough, if Freedom still inspire 

His latest song, and still there be. 
As evening closes round his lyre. 

One ray upon its chords from thee. 



THE END. 



PRINTED BY I. ASHMEAD A SON. 



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